People hear those words and picture a lie: dark alleyways, broken women, dirty men. It’s comforting. It keeps the problem distant and easy to judge.
That isn’t reality.
The escorts aren’t the dealers. The drugs usually arrive with men in tailored suits, offering cocaine like it’s a privilege. An exclusive drug. Something for the rich. But addiction doesn’t become classy because it’s expensive. Cocaine addicts are no different from heroin or meth addicts. The craving is the same. The lies are the same. The harm is the same.
Society just excuses one and condemns the other.
Escorts are treated like bargaining chips. Men try to lower prices with drugs instead of money, offended when told no. The irony is cruel — cocaine often leaves them unable to function at all. Power dissolves quietly in expensive rooms.
I’ve been stolen from, manipulated, and lied to by men who look successful on the outside and are bankrupt underneath. I’ve helped someone overdosing while others were too scared to call an ambulance — and paid for that kindness with hospital visits, facial infections, scars, and abuse.
Still, I refuse to become transactional. I refuse to stop believing kindness matters.
And yet, we live in a world that looks down on escorts as disposable. As less than human. But we are women who feel, who hurt, who carry other people’s pain while our own is ignored.
We are not objects.
We are not disposable.
We are people.
Stop judging us.
We did not wrong you.
We do not chase your partners.
They come to us.
That is the reality.